


What's Left

by I_AM_KING_DAD



Series: Dragstrip Courage [2]
Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Daddy Kink, Dimension Travel, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Internalized Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, This Can Be Read By Itself, Underage Drinking, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6938173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_AM_KING_DAD/pseuds/I_AM_KING_DAD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan's taken a shine to the new presence in his life. Rick, however, has ulterior motives of his own, and they come with a whole new set of problems for the displaced Pines twin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [35minutesago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/35minutesago/gifts).



> Title's based off the song "What's Left" by The Walters
> 
> **Not considering underage as Stan's about 18 at the time.**
> 
> So this is a one-off chapter of "Dragstrip Courage". If you haven't read that fic (you should read that first), here is a bit of a summary below:
> 
> Our Rick is from a dimension T-1017 where he loses his Stan in a careless, tragic accident of his own doing. Determined to find a replacement, he goes to another dimension (and also back in time with the help of a time crystal) to condition a Stan who never met his Rick from another dimension, and here we are!

The atmosphere was swollen; an impending downpour hung over Stanley Pine’s head. Craning his neck to look up, one spec of moisture plunged into his eye, “Agh!” he rubbed at the socket and looked back down at the sand. Not much luck today. Maybe he would continue for just a little longer. He fiddled with the metal detector, but was interrupted by a loud, “PINES!” 

Lifting his head up, he noticed there was someone at the boardwalk, waving to him. Rick Sanchez seemed to disappear while Stan combed the beach for flecks of gold and any other treasures he could find. What was meant by treasures, however, were not things found by the detector naturally, but items he stole from beach-going tourists lazing on the sand. He knew that finding a chunk of gold would be harder than he thought, and he needed to eat. So, if that meant having to steal a wallet or two once in a while to keep himself going a little longer, it didn’t cause too much harm. It didn’t make him feel any better, and he wasn’t able to completely justify himself to the action, but it was becoming easier to take. 

“Y’know gold is a precious mineral, right?” Rick had walked down a set of steps and over to the younger man, hands in pockets. 

Stan cocked his head to the side, “Well, yeah, gold’s precious-”

“It means you’re not gonna find anything here, are you kidding me?” he was shouting over the sound of the wind that had picked up, “All you’re gonna find, Stan, i-is hypodermic needles and garbage.” 

At this point, Stan was looking at the metal detector, then at Rick, then back toward the ground. Before he had the chance to snap back, lightning struck in the distance, and was followed by a sharp rumble of thunder. Rick laughed as Stan flinched, “Wh-what? Are you afraid?” 

He continued to snigger while Stan punched him in the arm, and started to walk toward his car, which was parked on a strip near the beach, “Let’s just go.”

Even though the walk to the car wasn’t very far at all, the rain began to pummel them almost immediately after the first lightning strike. Both of them ripped the doors to the car open, and huddled inside, dripping onto the leather seats. Rick, not wanting to get too soggy, took off his shirt, ringing it out on the floor, much to the protests of Stan. Rubbing at his face, Stan sighed and leaned on the steering console. 

“You okay, champ?” Rick’s voice was good-humored, but flat. 

“What?” Stan looked over, almost forgetting there was another in his car, “Oh, yeah, I just wanted to sit for a second,” he turned on the car, letting it idle, “I’m just going to turn on the radio,” switching it to any channel, it didn’t really matter. Leaning back in the reclined seat, he shut his eyes and placed his hands behind his head. He felt someone staring at him.

Initially, he did not want to open his eyes. He didn’t wipe away the excess water dripping from his hair. He sat there, arms crossed, attempting to relax. After minutes of still getting the feeling of being watched, he peeked over at Rick. Indeed, Rick was staring at him, but not in the way he normally would. Not with a look of impatience-it seemed like Stan was always a little too slow for Rick-but something else. His gaze was soft, but he was neither smiling, nor frowning. Stanley found it difficult to read his expressions sometimes, and they were always changing. Now instead of taking a quick peek, Stan turned his head to fully glimpse at the older man. Immediately, Rick turned his head to look out the window, “Oh yeah, so-euuuugh-so calming. Cars aren't exactly lightning proof, Stanley,” it appeared Rick was intent to cause trouble. 

Stan eyed Rick for a second and then scoffed, “Okay, we'll go in a second!” his flustered attitude pleased the other man.

By this point, Stan’s hair began to dry. The rain eliminated the pomade he used to slick it back. Now the ends began to puff up as they dried, giving it a feathery texture. This did not go unnoticed as Rick leaned over to tousle it, “Heyyy all the shit got washed out of your hair! Look at it, it's all fluffy!”

Stan instinctively moved back. This did not stop in the tousle of hair and slight noogy, “C’mon, Rick…” almost if on cue, he blushed.

Rick leaned a little closer, letting his fingers drift away from Stan’s hair, but still lingering a little bit, “You look really cute when you’re flustered like that.” 

Stan’s blush increased. Was that meant to be some type of flirtation? Was Rick really tired and just saying things to him? It could have just been a dig at him. He wasn’t sure how to process it, but something told him it was flirtatious. It made waves through his stomach, and to his chest, which palpated wildly. He reached out to grab the steering wheel, white knuckles gripping tight. He was still pulling away from Rick, but looking at him with an uncomfortable side-eye, “I don’t want you to get any ideas-” he began, stumbling through his words, “I know we live together, um, and we’re close, right? But I’m...don’t get the impression that I’m queer, okay? I’m not like that - I’m not one of those -”

In a microexpression so fast it was nearly imperceptible, Rick’s right lower eyelid twitched. Moving his hand away from Stanley and leaning back in a defensive posture he attempted to assuage the teen’s fears, “Easy there, Pines, it wasn’t like that! I was just playing,” he punctuated the sentence with a weak chuckle, but inside, annoyance was boiling in the pit of his stomach. By the time he had met his first Stan, he was already over this silliness, but that was a small price to pay. If he just played it cool, he’d come around. 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Stan was rubbing the back of his neck his free hand still gripping the steering wheel, “Oh,” he muttered, “Okay, well...let’s just go home and watch some TV.”

“Got it, champ. Nothing -euuuugh-nothing happened,” he flashed a quick thumbs up and leaned back in his seat while Stan pulled out of their spot and carefully navigated through the pouring rain.

The weather did not let up once they reached the apartment complex. In fact, the rain seemed to have the duty of accentuating the unappealing details of the sandstone building. Judging by the splotches of grey, and the overall filthy quality, Stan guessed the edifice had never been washed since it was constructed. The windows on the bottom floor were so filthy it was nearly impossible to see inside, save for muddied shadows moving past dirty sheer curtains. Rick produced a key which became stuck in the lock. After jiggling it feebly in place for a moment, he had to lift the door up by the handle for the key to be relinquished and the door to swing open. Kicking at the door frame, Rick ushered Stan inside. 

The walls, which at some point during the construction of the building, were meant to be papered in a soft, farmhouse yellow, were harsh and peeling; the drywall underneath was also flaking off, brown wood exposed in some places, flecks of black spotting around other places. If the city had cared at all about the quality of its buildings, this particular apartment complex, Glass Shard’s ‘Shady Heights by the Reservoir’ would have been condemned years ago. As offputting as this was to most people, Rick walked right past the damaged walls, flickering lights, and dubious characters coming in and out of their apartments. A small scant-clothed child hung out of the doorway to stare at the two of them as they walked past to a set of stairs, “Elevator’s still broken,” Rick kicked the door open with a soggy squish of his shoulder. They both surmised the elevator had never been in working condition to begin with.

Trekking up the stairwell was a potentially dangerous endeavor. Today, they were accosted by a drunken man originally passed out on the stairs. The fellow, roused by their heavy steps gripped Rick’s ankle as they stomped past. Rick tripped forward. His reaction was expected and foul. Cursing the man out, he kicked blindly at the man’s face until the grip on his ankle was relinquished. Spitting, Rick vaulted himself up the stairs two stairs per stride. Stan had backed up against the railing during this altercation, and quickly tip-toed away from the man, gripping his face, grumbling unintelligibly. 

Once they had one floor to go, the lights flickered in the already dim staircase. One more rumble of thunder and a strike of lightning later, and they were fully out in the whole building, “Aw FUCK,” Rick stopped, and so did Stan, “Uhh, just grip the railing I guess,” he continued his pace. Stan groped for the railing to orient himself. After a few uncertain steps, Rick was already at the top of the staircase holding the door open, “Hurry up!” 

“Okay, okay, jeez.” Stan scrambled up the last few steps and they walked to where the apartment was. The looming possibility of it not being the apartment they shared together would have made Stan hesitate, but Rick whipped the door open regardless. The two were hit with the stench familiar to bachelors and garbage truck drivers, and knew they were home. A sinking feeling overwhelmed Stanley when he realized the television was not a viable option for distraction. He had to think of something else to break up the uncomfortable feelings he was perceiving.

Rick, on the other hand, was the epitome of patience. Inside he raged, he wanted to tell Stan how stupid his outmoded ideas he had were, to shake some sense into him even. In order for him to achieve any semblance of the relationship he had with his own dimension’s Stanley, this fickle one would have to be dealt with using honey, not vinegar. Entirely familiar with the contents of the squalid apartment, he sank into the shadows. There was a shuffling, and then the flash of a lightsource that temporarily blinded Stan. Shielding his eyes, he stepped forward, and shut the door behind him. Once his sight adjusted to the light, he noticed Rick holding two beers in one hand, and a lantern in the other, “I-I-I’m not doing shadow puppets, so don’t ask me,” 

Stan grabbed one of the beers he assumed that was being offered to him, cracked it open, but before he could take a swig, it fizzed over and dripped down the side. A disgruntled sigh. Then a long, loud sip. He walked over to rifle through his duffel bag, and found a dry shirt, and some shorts. Stepping out of the light, he changed his clothes, grabbed his beer again and slugged it down. Today would be a heavy drinking day, he thought to himself. He wanted to relax. Rick flayed his nerves. With a thunk he dropped down onto the mattress and continued his departure from sobriety.

“This is for you, I guess,” Rick set the second can by his foot and watched the desperate young man drown his emotions. He’d seen this before. He drank in the emotional torment Stan visibly expressed on his face without him even realizing it. Rick brought a flask he kept in his pocket to his lips and drank from that source. He stood in the kitchenette. By the time Rick was finished with the contents of his flask, Stan was on his third beer. In the relatively short time they’d been together, his alcohol tolerance had gone up considerably. And for that, Rick was fairly impressed. Still, the tolerance he did have wasn’t much, and over the course of their silent, unspoken drinking match, he was fairly shaky on his feet. 

“I know what we could do, well, you could do,” Rick put his fingers together, a smirk crossing his features. He set the lantern up so that it was illuminating a stretch of unobstructed wall, “Why don’t you, uh, show me some stuff from those boxing lessons you used to take. Give y-your shadow the old one-two.” 

With a snort that twisted into a sneer, Stan stood up, “You’re about to see a champion in action,” he put on false pride and puffed out his chest, flexing. He seemed to be shrugging off his fears; the pervasive apathy toward usual hang-ups and moral setbacks that came with alcohol were certainly perks, “Also,” he motioned to the wall, “you don’t shadowbox like that, if that’s what you were thinking,” even tipsy, Stan would stop at nothing to point out something Rick mave had said in error. It was incredibly rare, but was nice to knock him down a peg. Standing up, he got himself another beer. It was then that Stanley proceeded to show Rick what he did know, punches, footwork, the works. Rick watched with slight interest, now situating himself on the bed, propped up on the pillows. In his hand, he sported a bottle of scotch whiskey he nursed.  
Over the next hour, they laughed and drank. Stan had since given up showing Rick anything regarding boxing, he didn’t seem interested in joining. What the two had succumb to was a shadow puppet show performed by a now sodden Stan. As children, Stanley and his brother performed shadow puppet shows for each other, Ford being particularly good with his extra digits. Once he had run out of shapes, Stan did his best impressions of various celebrities they’d watch on the television. Rick was particularly entertained by his spot-on Richard Nixon impression. The tipping point happened when Stan lost his footing during an exaggerated cowboy showdown, and fell onto the bed, right on Rick’s legs.

Scrambling, Stan rolled onto the unoccupied side of the bed. Rick didn’t seem to mind that Stan had landed on his legs. Both were still laughing at the incident, and shortly thereafter, Rick turned to face the other man. Wiping some spit that dripped onto his chin, he placed the hand on Stan’s shoulder, “You really...you really know how to turn a bad situation into a good one,” his thumb rubbed in a small circle on his collar bone. 

If Stan had been sober, he probably would have moved away immediately. Given the advanced nature of his insobriety, this would not be the case. He felt comforted by Rick touching him more than just a pat on the shoulder. He couldn’t remember the last time he received such a gentle gesture; come to think of it, he’d never been touched like that. Still cautious, he tried to make it sound like he didn’t noticed Rick had scooted closer to him, or that his other hand was now doing the same thing on the opposite shoulder, “Well, you know, can’t let a little-hic-a little rain get you down.”

The hiccup was met with a quiet chuckle and a hum of agreement. His thumbs rested in the divot where Stan’s clavicle met in the middle. Rick was about a head-and-a-half taller than Stan and had the advantage of being able to see the expressions crossing his face, but keeping his veiled. He pushed himself so that they were now at arm’s length, Rick giving a show of feigned concern, “Crazy! Y-you’re really tense! Why don’t you uh -” he began to stand up from the bed to go to the lantern, “face down, ‘cause I’ve got magic fingers!” he inched over to the lantern, switching it off with a hiss.

“Whatta ‘bout the ligh?” 

“Pines, we’ve only got so much fuel in this thing, and if you’re anything like me, you probably don’t wanna go eugggggh-out there to piss, piss in the dark.” 

Stan made an audible whine that was purposefully ignored by Rick. Complying, he rolled over onto his stomach. He wasn’t even sure if he’d even received a massage in his life. When Rick’s thin frame straddled him, he was definitely certain he hadn’t. Thumbs pressed between his shoulders, causing him to twitch. It was painful, at first, but the alcohol had deadened his nerves enough to make the pain negligible, and even feel good. As Rick’s ministration continued, Stan could feel the merits to this, even though as a younger man, he found it incredibly difficult to lie still. Sinking further and further into a haze of comfort and endorphins, the only sounds Stan could make were quiet mewls and content sighs.

After initial contact, Rick was able to dig his knuckles into Stan's broad shoulders. This didn't mean he was an expert masseuse. Little “oofs” and brief “aahs” of pain stippled the relative silence in the room, save for the raging storm outside. The only place Rick was any semblance of gentle was the back of the neck. His fingers curled where hairline met, index rubbing between the two muscles that met at the base. Touching here was soft and gentle; Stan was unable to register much, except that saliva was pooling in his mouth. There was a sharp intake of air, and a burbling groan that indicated to Rick this was definitely a sweet spot. He kept that in the back of his mind for later, and idly circled around the two nodules located at the base of the skull.  
Kneading him for a couple of moments longer, he could hear what he thought to be snoring. Pursing his lips in disappointment, he made sure to move as gently as possible off the slumbering man. 

Stan had been two minutes away from falling dead asleep. Although Rick’s intentions to not disturb him were pure, it was the lack of pressure being applied that was what snapped Stan awake, “Ohhh wha?” he lifted his head only slightly, “R-rick?” his eyes were screwed shut, and he turned to the side, but there was still no light, and his eyes seemed to have a difficult time to adjust.

Rick wasn’t on the bed, but standing, looking out the window when this happened. Hearing his name, he turned around and kneeled on the bed, “Heh, I’m here.”

Stan’s reaction was delayed, but one of relief, “Oh good...you came back…” with effort, he flipped over onto his back, hand on his stomach to stare blearily up at Rick.

“Pffft, I never left,” he smiled, ruffling Stan’s hair, letting his hand linger gently on the side of his face. Rick had no problem seeing the look of exaltation Stan seemed to give him. He was fairly older in this dimension, and he knew that these couple of weeks that the two had known each other meant a lot to Stan. Wiping a little bit of spittle away with his thumb, Rick pondered whether his next action would break that trust and idolatry that he reveled in from Stan.

“Don’t,” was the reply. The hum of a chuckle exited through Rick’s nose when he leaned forward. It was simply absurd, most of the time, for Rick to want to be gentle. Maybe it was work that needed his attention, or some sort of device he was creating, or a bomb...He kept the idea in his head that this was a delicate procedure. Why did he feel himself shaking?

Stan felt the hand on his cheek. It was comforting, and soft. He pressed into it. Heat rose in his stomach, bubbling in his chest, and spreading across his face. In the back of his mind, Stanley knew what he was doing was perceived as wrong. The idea of anyone finding out about this...what was this? Was it a tryst? Relationship? Either way, he was terrified of the idea of the outside world knowing what was happening at this very moment. His father would have thrown a fit, no doubt. Thinking about his father made him break into a sweat, and if he wasn’t so drunk, his skin would be crawling. There was merit to alcohol, Stanley hazily deduced. It helped bring thoughts in his head to the forefront, and he didn’t seem to mind. His thoughts drifted to Rick in the passenger seat, staring at him, shirtless. Rick drenched in sweat during a particularly hot day. The smug look on Rick’s face when he retreated from a dumpster with an item he could use for those inventions that Stan himself didn’t quite understand. The shadows danced in front of him, and then another hand placed itself on his other cheek. Before Stan could further register what was going on, a pair of lips pressed against his, softer than anything he’d ever felt. 

Rick wasn’t sure how long to stay there. He waited for a shove, a push, a protest, anything. No struggle, no crying out, nothing. He pressed further. Rick let his fingers stroke the sides of Stan’s face, and caress under the jaw. Conscience dictated that he not try anything further than what he was doing. A hand on his side said otherwise. Working their lips together in tandem, Rick poked his tongue through receptive, easily parted lips. After realizing Stan wasn’t going to move away from him, Rick wrapped his arms around Stan. Hands sought for bare skin, fingers hooking under the cotton fabric, and reaching for the smoothness of the younger man’s back. His fingers itched and his body ached for more; it had been weeks since he had release, it might as well been an eternity to him. Rick was famished. 

Stanley’s mind derailed. Whatever negative thoughts plagued his mind dissolved gradually in the dark. His inexperience put a freeze on his actions; his kissing was sloppy, tongue lolling lazily against the intruder. There was a tug on his shirt. The kiss was broken only briefly. Heavy-handedly, Stan assisted with the removal of his t-shirt. The fabric was damp from sweat and residual water, and clung to the broadest part of his chest before relinquishing itself to be thrown carelessly on the floor. 

Once their lips met again, Rick couldn’t help but bite the soft flesh of Stan’s lower lip. He gasped, and Rick chuckled. He moved from his lips, down his cheek, and to his neck. There was an incredibly urge to bite the skin, pull it with his teeth, even draw the blood up to the surface. Steeling himself, he kissed the base of Stan’s neck and moved to look him in the eye, “Pines!” he started, over-eager and loud at first. Hushing his voice to be as soft and gentle as possible, it game out as a growel, “have you, ever, uh,” he rubbed at his face; maybe he drank a little too much, “have you ever...you know?”

“Wha...drink in the dark? No.”

“Okay - dammit, what? No!” Rick audibly slapped a palm against his face in frustration, “Been with a girl, Stan.”

Stan’s eyes snapped open. He was seeing someone initially when he was kicked out. His brain was so muddied, that he almost didn’t understand the question at all, “I’ve...seen someone before,” what was her name? He saw her last week! Sometimes they’d go dancing. Oh well. It didn’t matter, “but um...never...no,” the rest of his statements were just soft utterances of half-thoughts.

Rick could tell Stan was thinking a little too much, and decided to take the reigns again, “It doesn’t matter,” he kissed him quickly to keep Stan from saying another stupid word. He really was drunk. Plastered, even. Rick considered the consequences of his actions for a moment, before running his hands over the taut skin stretched over nubile muscles. His fingers drifted past his abs, poked his belly button for good measure, and then stopped where shorts met skin. Rick wasn’t going to hold his hand at this moment, and was thankful he was wearing a pair of shorts rather than those ridiculous tight jeans he always made fun of him for wearing. These just had a simple button. He popped it, and looked over in Stan’s general direction. Rick could see much easier in the dark; his eyes adjusted a while ago. Stanley had a look of caution, apprehension. He was waiting for something to happen. Hunkering down a bit, Rick gripped the fabric of the shorts tightly, and yanked downward. Stan was half-hard, the sheer excitement assisting to bring him to full tumescence. 

Stan let a moan slip out. His chest heaved with nervous, yet deep breathes. It was as if there wasn’t enough air in the room to support him. He was enjoying this. Maybe a little too much. Rick was so nice to him today...it never occurred to him that Rick had an ulterior motive. He was finally starting to let his inhibitions go. Just roll with it, he thought to himself. There was a hand on his member. He could feel hot breath on the head. His sighs turned into nervous whimpers. And suddenly, all the pressure and semblance of Rick being there had left. He struggled to sit up, became frustrated, and mewled, “W-why did you...stop?” The last word hung in his throat.

Rick had moved away only to drink some beer and resituate himself at a better angle. He was in the middle of a swig when Stan called out to him. Wiping his mouth on his arm, he paused to internally celebrate his victory. Stan wanted him. He crawled back onto the bed, using a knee to nudge the other’s legs apart. Lowering down and straightening himself out, his legs extended off the bed. Once again, Rick’s mouth was dangerously close to the younger man’s swollen member. Sticking his tongue out, he let the tip shakily drag up the underside of the shaft. Stan’s breath hitched. Rick blew gently on the saliva trail he had made. Hips involuntarily bucked at the coolness. Sniggering to himself, Rick placed one hand on a thigh to hold him in place, and another around his dick. A cry erupted from Stan’s chest when he felt a tongue lap at the head and tickle at the slit. Everything seemed much louder. It didn’t occur to either of them that the rain had ceased outside. Rick made a hushing sound before wrapping his lips around the tip of Stan’s cock.

For a moment, Stan tensed up. This feeling was not unknown to him, however it was much more tactile than anything he had ever experienced. He never got to finish with a blow job; that would be an entirely new feeling to him. A little part of him was still afraid, but he shoved it to the back of his mind. Unsure what to do with his hands, he placed one on his stomach, inching it closer to the Rick’s bobbing head. The expert tongue working along the shaft, the wet heat, it was all enough to send him over the edge. Rick had even gotten a good rhythm going. Stan entwined his fingers in Rick’s hair, which oddly enough, Rick found comforting. He panted and twitched and was seconds away from warning him he was about to cum when the two of them were bathed in a blinding light. The power had returned to the building.

The ability to see or not did not deter Rick from continuing what he was doing. Rubbing his eyes to adjust to the brightness, Stan, however, looked down and froze. The reality of the situation hit him like a mack truck going sixty. Blood rushed in his ears; he felt his heart rattle in its bone-and-flesh encased cage. He immediately disengaged his fingers from Rick’s hair. It was at this time that Rick ceased what he was doing to look up to gage Stan’s reaction. A string of saliva hung at his lips, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, “Wh-what’sa matter?”

Once frozen, Stan now felt he needed to get moving, “I don’t think I can, I’m not that type of p-” he was babbling to himself, grabbing the shorts laid on the side of the bed, and pulling away from Rick as quickly as possible. Rick fell forward onto the bed with a thud, and sat up to look at the younger man bristle at the sight of him.

“You’re not making sense! Relax and get over here,” he patted the bed in an attempt to persuade. 

Stan became more irritated. The shock and light seemed to sober him up quickly, “You don’t understand!” he shouted, and pulled at his hair, pacing across the floor, “I’m not into these things, I’m not supposed to do this,” he waved his hand toward the bed and sought some sort of understanding from the older man. His eyes searched in vain.

Not this again. What was once amusement expressed on Rick’s face now transformed to annoyance. He kept his voice as calm as he could, but it was wavering, “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it in the dark. Lights can be turned off, Stanley,” his tone resembled a disappointed parent.

“No, I’m not like that, I’m not one of you,” Stan had been gathering his belongings and shoving them in a dufflebag. He reached for his t-shirt, and Rick got up to grab his hand.

“Stanley,” disappointment was gone, now he harbored a heavy amount of disdain and annoyance in his voice, “get back to bed, you’re still hard,” he motioned toward Stan’s crotch; his member, now hidden by the shorts, did very little to hide his still throbbing erection. Stan froze again when Rick placed a hand on his hip, bringing him closer.

Stan placed his hands in front of him, “Get away from me, you faggot!” he shouted, and shoved Rick as hard as he could. For a lanky man, he barely budged. Stan immediately regretted saying such a horrible thing to someone he felt so….strongly about. He backed away like a wounded animal. 

“The fuck you say to me?” Rick narrowed his eyes, “That’s real rich, Stanley,” he surprisingly did not want to push him back, although he never let anyone touch him like that, “why don’t you go tell your father about wh-what, what happened tonight. I’m sure he’ll get a real kick out of it,” 

“I don’t need my dad to tell me this is wrong! I can handle it on my own. I’ve got my car! You don’t even have one! Or a job!” he tried to make his insults reasonable, yet he was so torn. He still wanted to lie down, but the niggling feeling of shame barred him from allowing this.

Rick stood straight up. He towered over Stanley, who was edging his way to the door. They were still too close for comfort, the apartment was so incredibly dinky, “Get the fuck out then! Go ahead and try to make it on your own. I’ve seen you out there, y-you wouldn’t handle a, a week! I can’t believe I let you stay here, you freeloading little shit!” 

“I won’t be back,” he was halfway out the door.

“Oh yeah! Well I won’t be here when you get back!” Stan had slammed the door halfway through the sentence, but could clearly hear Rick from the hallway. Rubbing his tired eyes, he refused to look back and failed to see the flash of green that emanated from under the apartment door.

Stan flew down the stairs, even though his legs felt like gelatin. Toward the end, he did trip, faceplanting against a wall, but brushed it off and kept going. There was very little regard for his own body, and he kicked through the front doors, allowing them to bang shut. He hope Rick heard them slam. If he did want to return, there’d be no way for him to get up there. He didn’t have a key. There was no turning back; Rick didn’t even have a telephone if he did want to call him to apologize. He thought he would take one last look at the window, so he ran around the side of the building. It was already dark. Growling, he stomped to his car, legs and shoes now drenched in gutter water. He climbed in the car and hauled off. His head swarmed with angry thoughts, accusations, comebacks, anything. Speeding down the streets, he decided to park near the beach where they were before. Stan could be alone with his thoughts, cool off a bit. He felt the opposite of that. Absent mindedly, while putting the car in park, he nudged the still-excited prick trapped in the flimsy fabric of his shorts. 

“Fuck…” he whispered, and his lower eyelid twitched. Turning the car off, he leaned back in the seat. What the hell was he going to do about this? He didn’t want to touch it, but it was there, pulsing. 

Deciding it would be best to just get rid of it, rather than waiting for it to stop, he pulled on the button of his shorts, freeing his dick once more. Hesitantly, he wrapped his fingers around the shaft. His mind was still buzzing like a hive. Attempting to push the previous events out of his thoughts proved impossible. The memory of Rick, his soft touches, the way he held his hand through the process, even scenarios that hadn't happened yet leaked into the forefront. He started pumping his hand. Rick unbuttoning his jeans. A bead of perspiration dripped down his temple. Rick’s penis, erect in his full glory, or at least something he could imagine. He never really saw anyone else's except for an accidental glance in the locker room. Stan whimpered and pumped faster. The more he thought, the more guilt he felt. Were those tears? He clamped his eyes shut and pumped harder. As he approached his orgasm, he erupted in his free hand and let out a painful, wracked sob. Superficially cleaning himself up, he wiped his hand on the leg of his shorts. Sniffling, he gripped the steering wheel, head resting against the horn, but not beeping it.

He stayed like this for a few moments before wiping his face on his t-shirt. If he stayed in the car any longer he was going to lose it. Maybe if he interacted with others, he could get it off his mind. No use calling Ford, he was probably still mad. He also considered calling his mother, who would still listen to him, but had to veil the conversation like one of her readings. Resolving to himself that he would head over to the Juke Joint to see Carla, he dug around in the backseat for a change of clothes. A little bit of pomade and some aftershave would be enough to clean up. The rain was basically a shower, right? With his hair slicked back and a bit of five o’clock shadow, he looked rugged. He admired himself in his rearview mirror for a moment, before getting out of the car to walk. The cool air would aid the clearing of his mind. He hurriedly made his way toward the diner.

Meanwhile, Rick felt it was time to abort this mission with his current Stan, and go back to looking for different Stans that meshed into his own timeline. Other Ricks wouldn’t notice his presence as much, anyway. Maybe these Stans wouldn’t complain as much. Maybe some of them got their shit together and roll with whatever self-serving plan he had. In this instance, his portal splatted in the Mojave desert of California. One of the evenings when this younger Stan was sleeping, Rick had plucked a few hairs from his head in order to analyze and find another’s in their dimension, wherever they were at the time. The stint he spent aimlessly dimension-hopping before he found this last Stan had made him wiser. All he had to do was assume the place of the Rick of the dimension and keep his cool. He’d done it before, and it hadn’t really been too much of a problem before. 

He idly kicked some of the dirt in the parking lot, and walked closer to the motel he was portaled to. Rick forgot what it was like to be in his own time for a moment. The year was 1982, and he was amused to see that this Stan will had his shitty car, which was parked, like an idiot, right in front of his room. Chuckling to himself, Rick sauntered across the lot to the front of the door, giving it a light tap. There was a noise on the other side of the door. He couldn’t pinpoint the sound, but an eerie silence followed. The door opened a crack and he spied the familiar profile. A gruff, confused voice quickly said, “Rick?” Nailed it. This Stan already knew who he was. All he had to do was stand there, looking cool, “What are you doing back so early, Honey? And uh - where’s your key?”

Honey? This would be even easier than he expected, “I-uh-I lost it,” he was quick to come up with a lie. He’d done it before, and this one didn’t even have to be necessarily thrilling. His mind bursted with ideas of all the horrible things that the two used to do together.  
“Oh,” the door swung open. Stanley was hiding a baseball bat behind his back. He was the spitting image of his old Stan. Well, this one had a bit of a mullet, but that was okay with him. It gave him something to hold on to.Rick certainly missed the musculature of a mature Stan, even if he was wearing that stupid salesman outfit-Stan argued that was a good cover. Rick stepped inside, as nonchalantly as possible. “You were able to get everything done...so quickly?” he looked at the time, “I swear you left five minutes ago.” 

Stan must have been counting money on the bed, and that’s why Rick was greeted at the door with a weapon and not a smile. He knew it behooved him to keep in character, but his balls were aching, and he wanted to get off now, “Well, y’know how I am…” Stan went back to counting money. Rick stood a few feet away, staring him down. This was definitely something that transcended dimensions. Maybe Stan would get the hint, his first one did. His hardon was clearly visible through the fabric of his trousers. 

“I know what you want, and I already explained to you this morning that you gotta work for it,” Stan wasn’t even looking at Rick, he was still counting that damn cash. 

This was not an ideal situation for Rick. He didn’t enjoy being bottomed, and the only times he would ever let himself in any respect be dominated would be to get something that he wanted. This Rick must be a bit different. It didn’t matter, he could play the part and get what he wanted later, “Work? Y-you know I’ve never worked a day in my life,” he folded his arms.

“You said that this morning,” there was a hint of laughter in his voice.

Rick let out a long, drawn out sigh. Scanning this Stan up and down, he noticed one telling aspect of him. On his left hand, an incredibly large ring that was similar to that awarded at boxing championships adorned the ring finger. These two must be married. He had to be a bit more careful. Did he want to meddle with a married Rick and Stan pair? Possibly. If it was good enough for him, “Look at me!” he pointed to his crotch, “I-I can’t even think with this thing!” 

Stan was unmoved. After a few awkward beats of silence he looked up and said, “Tell me just how much you need it. Beg for it,” his eyes narrowed, waiting for Rick’s response.

“Y-you…” he growled, and was about to start. It was then he realized that this was not a Stan to be pushed around. This was a man in charge. Stan waited, expectantly for some answer, the expression on his face tired and bored. Rick could hardly think, let alone come up with some witty comeback, and therefore, dropped to his knees. 

“Well?”

Rick rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, “Please,” his nose scrunched in disgust as he said it.

He feigned shock, “Wow, Sanchez! I didn’t know you were such an amazing actor!” Stan sneered, waiting for Rick’s next move.

Rick swallowed a few insults before making an attempt to sound genuine, “Stan. Please. Puh-leeease,” he even attempted batting his eyelashes a few times, “I really need this,” he also looked gravely serious.

“Need what?” Stanley seemed to understand this was dire to Rick, and was having fun with him, “I want you to tell me what you need?” Now he was faking concern.

Gnashing his teeth for a moment, he looked like his blood was boiling him alive, “I. Need,” he let every word be its own statement. He wheedled when he said “need” to show his disdain, “to get off,” he hushed himself a little when a large hand caressed the side of his cheek.

“I didn’t hear anything,” the thumb drew gentle circles on his cheek, and dragged itself over to Rick’s lips, “What was that again?” he seemed to be admiring the view.

Rick had half a mind to spit in his face and walk out, but he was in too deep. The contact was enjoyable, so he guessed that he could continue on with this trying little game for a bit longer, “I saaaaaaid,” his tone became a little snotty, “I wanna,” it was then that the thumb slipped between his lips, yanking his jaw open, “geroffff,” 

Stan sounded sickeningly sweet, “I’m sorry, must have misheard you,” he pointed at his ears, which, due to the amount of boxing he’d done in the past, had been hit and blown open with cauliflower ear, “little louder,” he urged. 

Moving backward in an attempt to pull away, the thumb hooked into his cheek, holding him there. He lolled his tongue in an attempt to push the thumb out, but to no avail, “I-” it sounded like he was speaking through a cardboard tube. When he attempted to form a word that required his tongue hitting the top of his pallet, Stan stuck his thumb straight on his tongue, holding it down. Rick knew what was happening here. He couldn’t say ‘need’ he had to attempt to say ‘want’. How much of a wimp was this dimension’s Rick?, “Wuhhhaaaaaaaaaa,” is what came out. Stan let up on his tongue, and he was able to mutter, “gerroff.”

Triumph lit Stan’s face up, which softened it considerably, “Good job,” he withdrew his hand, and Rick considered biting the thumb, but thought better, “I’m proud of you,” his voice was flat, “So proud of you, in fact, that I’ll give you a little treat,” Rick’s dick twitched in his pants.

Beaming, Rick hastily began unzipping and unbuttoning his pants, only to have his hands grabbed, and placed at his sides. Stan tsked under his breath, “It’s in the closet, don’t play dumb.”

This charade was beginning to wear on Rick. He ambled to the closet, and opened the door. At first, there seemed to be nothing but black. Maybe a jacket or two and some various clothes...wait a second; a lot of leather. What did they do, raid a biker bar? He parted the sea of metal and tanned hide to find something hidden in a large bag in the back. Tentatively, the first time he’d probably ever been tentative in his life, he opened the bag to find a large shaft of silicon in the shape of an aquamarine tentacle, complete with fake suckers. Before what this thing was registered in his mind, he heard a voice softly behind him.

“I call him Bruno.”

The sound startled him, and he clammered to put the inappropriately large sex toy back into its bag, “That’s all well and good, Stan,” he began, but was cut off in the moment at a bang at the door. 

“W-whyyyy should I have to beg to get fucked by something I paid for!” It was the Rick of this dimension. They must have had this conversation before. He was sweaty and angry, and maybe wearing too much leather, but stopped immediately when the imposter Rick swiveled into view, “Fuck is this!” 

Stan, now shocked, stepped away from the foreign Rick, “I don’t know!” 

The Rick of this dimension looked livid, “Wuh-ohhh,” was the only thing that Rick of the T-1017 dimension could say, before adjusting the settings of his portal gun, splatting it on the floor, and jumping to safety, leaving the remaining Rick and his Stan in a tissy. 

“So let me get this straight, I leave, in a completely, a completely different outfit, and y-you just go for the first Rick you see?”

“To be fair, I didn’t realize this,” Stan motioned at the scene, “was a thing.”

Rick acquiesced to this point, admitting that no, Stan probably wouldn’t have realized this ‘was a thing’. He growled to himself, fiddling with his own portal gun, “I gotta go find some -eeuuugh-oooother Ricks and get this taken care of.”

“Are you going to bring him back here?”

Rick stopped to look at Stan with an expression of disbelief, “Why would I do that now?”

Stan looked at his nails, trying to keep his excitement nonchalant, “I just thought you could use a little playmate, and he seemed...pretty fun,” a devilish grin spread from ear to ear.

Rick could feel the grin glaring at him, but he didn’t meet Stan’s gaze, “Ohhh, Pines,” he mumbled, and went through his own portal.

Once safe and secure in another dimension, T-1017 couldn’t help but replay the scene in his head. He looked at his portal gun, searching for the coordinates, “W-what the fuck kind of dimension was that, any-eeeeeeugggh-way?” fiddling with the control he mumbled, “Kappa 1...Nu Kappa...K1-NK- OH GOD DAMMIT,” he shooked his head and planned his next move.

The Stan Rick left behind made his way toward the Juke Joint, but found himself out of breath by the time he got to the door. Steeling himself for a moment, he made sure he looked presentable. He was fairly sure he did, even though the water from the street seeped up the legs of his jeans, and he wasn’t wearing his best shirt to go dancing in. The door opened with a jingle, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted her, sitting in the corner, watching some live entertainment quietly strum on a guitar with vague interest. 

“Carla!” doing his best to keep a brave face, swooped in, and sat down in the seat before her, uninvited.

Carla seemed taken aback, “Stan?” there was an awkward pause. Stan kept a cheesy grin, but Carla looked concerned, “What happened to you?”

“Whadya mean what happened to me?” he laughed. If Stan looked at himself in the mirror, he would see the deep red rims of his eyes and the puffy bags that formed beneath it. His nose dripped, his clothes clung to him not from the dampness of the air outside, but more from sweat. Stan’s attempts to clean himself up backfired on him, as he reeked of body odor and a thin veil of pomade and cheap dimestore deodorant, “I’m in the prime of my life!”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Typical Stan, always so grandiose when it was the least appropriate, “No one’s seen you at school for a couple of weeks.”

“Who needs school? I’ve got all the smarts I need up here,” he tapped his temple and leaned forward.

“Then what have you been doing?” she seemed nervous, uncomfortable even, “Have you been crying?” she reached out to touch his face, but Stan moved back. 

“Making my way in the world; a real man’s life. And I’ve definitely not been cryin’! It’s allergies,” he quickly wiped away a tear forming in the corner of his eye; maybe it was a bad idea to come.

“Well,” Carla began, and looked around the diner to see if she knew anyone around. She didn’t want to be the talk of the already-small town. Her hands braced her arms, rubbing gently for comfort; this was not something she wanted to be involved with anymore, but she had to know, “some of the guys at school...they said…” 

Stan narrowed his eyes, “Said what.” 

“Have you...have you talked to Ford?”

Through grit teeth he replied, “What did they say, Carla?”

“They said….they said you’ve been hangin’ around some older guy? Like they said he looked real old. Is this true, Stan?”

He was taken aback. How could he answer it? The wound was still incredibly fresh in his mind. His palms sweat and itched. He must have grimaced or made an unpleasant expression as Carla was looking more disturbed than before she mentioned the question, “He’s just a guy who’s, uh, he’s helping me start a business!” 

Carla could tell he was lying, and her face fell, “Oh,” he said, “because, they said you seemed rather - friendly with him? Stanford seems pretty suspicious, and -”

“Well, you know what, Carla? I don’t care what Stanford thinks, and I definitely don’t care what you,” he pointed at her, and she moved backward in concern, “think! I don’t need this! I could be, uh, be making money!” he quickly got up.

“Stan!”

“No, you made it clear whose side you’re on,” he made his way out the door. She didn’t even get up to follow him. 

Once he had gotten at least a block away from the Juke Joint the wind died down from his sails. It started to rain again, and he didn’t even have a towel in his car to dry himself off. In what was an instant, Stanley had alienated the last person attached to his home life. No doubt Carla would tell Ford of the terrible state he was in. Who knows if Stanford would tell their father about the people he’d be hanging around. He blanched at the thought. There would be no way to explain himself either, since neither of them would want to talk to him. Sure, he mentioned once or twice that he wanted to start up a business, but where would he get the income? He was barely able to pick pockets to feed himself let alone afford products to sell. Rick seemed like a savvy fellow, and now that he didn’t have him, Stan was completely alone in this world. When he was initially kicked out, he used to scheme about how the world was at his fingertips. Now, as Stan made it to the car and slid into the driver’s seat, that didn’t feel like the case anymore. What was normally a welcoming, warm car felt cold and indifferent. Leaning the seat back, he turned to his side, and desperately tried to get some sleep before the cops inevitably would wake him up and force him to go elsewhere.

The next day, he refused to think about Rick. He refused to think about the horrific conversation he had at the Juke Joint with what he figured is now his ex girlfriend. Like he could have called her a girlfriend. All he really wanted to do was see her dance in those hot pants, but hot pants were the last thing on his mind. He spent the day combing the beach, even though he knew nothing would come of it. It quickly became stale, and it only brought Rick to the forefront of his mind. Just sitting on the beach made him think of his brother, another person he would refuse to reconcile with from his own stubbornness. In the midafternoon he considered getting a job as a busboy for some extra cash, but his laziness and disheveled appearance proved to be much more than any business owner could stand. By the end of the first day without Rick, he felt like his brain had been replaced by fiberglass itching the depths of his skull.

Stanley’s second day, sans Rick, proved to be much more difficult. He woke up to the sound of shouting similar to Rick’s hungover groans. In reality, it was just a raucous homeless person being harassed by some teenagers. He snorted at how close to home that hit. The stubble he deemed rugged was growing longer in some places. Maybe eventually he’ll grow some fuller facial hair. For now it just looked silly. He couldn’t be bothered to deal with it. His face had grown sticky with sweat and oil from his hands from constantly rubbing his face and eyes in irritation. Today he felt sluggish. Eating was imperative today, and combing the beach for change wasn’t going to put food in his stomach. Begrudgingly, he had to pick someone’s pocket. When reaching for a woman’s pocketbook while she was tanning on her stomach, a law-abiding citizen had alerted the police. He didn’t run very far, he was so tired it was expending too much energy. 

Allowing himself to be arrested, he spent the rest of that day in the county jail cell. At least he got a shower and a meal out of it. He remained listless amongst the raving lunatics, drunkards, and other degenerates that trolled the shores of New Jersey. Anxiety clouded his judgement. Thoughts of Rick patched themselves into view. Overwhelming his senses was a massive amount of guilt. Why did he have to call him a faggot? It was not a word he particularly like, just something he had heard. It was powerful. He wanted it to bite. Like he had something he could hold over him. Something that would supercede his own feelings of inferiority and denial. The jail was freezing and he would give anything to be back in the apartment, in the warmth, spending time with Rick. He wish he could apologize. What if he had skipped town? His heart dropped. It would have been easy for Rick to leave. He wouldn’t leave. Not like that. He didn’t even have a car. Stanley clung to this idea what he was released the next morning. The jail was a couple of miles away, so he walked. Fortunately, the balmy weather made the walk pleasant for him, even though it was rushed. He wanted to get to the Stanmobile. 

What he found was his car had been impounded. Everything he owned was in the car. A crushing blow to his self-esteem, Stan spent the day trying to figure out ways to break into the impound lot without being caught. It would help if he had a partner. He had to go. He had to see if he was there. In the evening, he stood outside the apartment complex as the sun set, and waiting for a light to turn on. When it didn’t, he left. He figured he could sleep in the Stan O’War. His anger over Ford and his family was less than him being upset at Rick, so he felt little resentment while sleeping there. It was the one place right now that was safe, and he clung to it. This wouldn’t last long, as his thoughts continued to linger. What if he came back in the middle of the night? What if he was there and just had the television on? Maybe he was drinking at the bar? His head reeled, and he found himself, like a zombie, drag his body to the building. The window was dark. He sat across the street, keeping watch until he could no longer stand it. He dozed occasionally, but Stan remained single-minded.

By the next morning he was ready to crack. Heart palpitations plagued his chest. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone who knew his family, so a great deal of paranoia fueled his actions. Following a fellow tenant into the building, he was able to bypass the key. If he had to, he would wait outside, in front of the door. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. The hallways were unwelcoming and filthy. Questionable beings roamed the hall; whether or not they were real people or apparitions was dubious. When he reached Rick’s door, he knocked, waited, and when he didn’t hear an answer, leaned against the door and slid down. So this is what it’d come to? He loathed the idea of crawling back to someone, but at this time, he couldn’t help it. It’s not like Rick would want to speak to him anyway. Just for his piece of mind, he wanted to apologize. Maybe he’d leave in the morning when all was said and done. He’d just have to wait…He nodded off deciding whether or not he should give up, or stay there.

It wasn’t very long. His sleepy body fell to the floor when the door was opened on him, but he remained asleep. A while later he was subconsciously aware of a presence and awoke. When he opened his eyes, a scowling Rick was standing over him, “Can you move? You’re standing in my doorway and I need to shut the door,” his hair was wet, dripping on his face. Stan turned over to white his face and sit out. Did Rick leave to take a shower and just let him lie there? Apparently so. 

“Rick! S-sorry I just-” the door was shut on his face when he sat up. After all his waiting and seeing a faint glimpse of the man, he was desperate to get inside. He knocked on the door. Nothing. He banged on the door. Nothing. Clawing down the sides of his cheeks, he rested his head on the door, “Rick, please, let me in, I need to talk to you!” this happened for a few minutes, and the banging became a rhythmic tattoo that irritated someone down the hall enough to shout at him to stop. As his desperation grew, he could hear shuffling in the apartment. 

The door swung open wide, and Stan found himself being gripped by his t-shirt, and pulled into the apartment. Rick was so close his forehead pressed against his, “W-what the fuck was that? Y-you trying to get me evicted? What the fuck -” he relinquished his grip on Stan and let him stagger, “was that stunt for? What could you, you possibly have of, of value, to tell me!” his voice was harsh, like he’d been yelling. He looked tired, and horrendously out of sorts. Rick’s breath smelled like stale beer and cigarettes. Eyeing him for a moment, Stan looked at the status that the other man was in at this time. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of ratty pants. He was covered in bruises, cuts, burns. Some looked like someone put a cigarette out on his chest. The others looked...like bite wounds? His neck was covered in the marks that Carla would leave on his shoulder when they were having fun. Stan’s face flushed when Rick stopped ranting at him. A pause between the two had them standing in uncomfortable silence, “Now that you’re in here, spit it out,” he growled. 

“I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to what?” Rick lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips. The ashtray near him was filled to the brim; he must have been chain smoking since he got back from, well, wherever he was. Stan kept looking at the marks that decorated Rick’s neck and chest. His wandering eyes did not go unnoticed, and Rick occasionally rubbed at his clavicle or one of the bruises tenderly on his skin with the hand holding the cigarette. (He knew Stan would be looking when he saw his lower eyelids twitched-Stan was a little gunshy toward burns.) Stan, however, did not realize he was being tested, his tired mind and just how uncomfortable he felt was showing in his physical appearance.

Shuffling his feet, he attempted to appear smaller. If he could just disappear, that would probably be best at this moment. He was terrible at apologizing, it just wasn’t something he did. His father ingrained in him that he should apologize for nothing, that it was a sign of weakness, “I,” he rubbed at his arm and looked away, “am sorry that I hurt you.”

Rick took another drag of his cigarette, and let the air escape from his lips in a clean stream. When the smoke dissipated, he let out of a low whistle, “Wow... That, that really fixes things, huh?” he eyed the ember and admired it for a moment, as if it were a large ring on his finger. Looking at a calendar hanging on the wall-it was last year’s, and not even the correct month-he sighed, “It took you three days to come up with that garbage?” 

Stanley’s emotions were concentrating in his stomach. He could feel a pit in there, and wanted to vomit. He blanched considerably and looked up at the ceiling. Clearly, he was doing his best not to cry. Rick stayed where he was, except he flicked the butt of his finished cigarette out the open window, scaring a few pigeons on the fire escape. Not knowing what to say next, he began to control his breathing, but that was failing him too. Now, standing in the middle of the apartment, the younger man found himself balling his fists up, and putting them to his face. He let out a strangled cry, hunching slightly in frustration. If he just stayed still, maybe Rick wouldn’t notice he was close to breaking down. He hoped he just looked frustrated.

Rick could clearly tell that Stan was breaking. He stood frozen, hand still extended toward the window like he was still throwing the cigarette. How should he react to this? Two seconds from kicking the lone Pines twin out of the apartment, he saw him shivering. Bringing his extended hand to his chin, he rubbed the scraggly soul patch and observed with intensity the scene before him.

He was so tired and miserable. He might as well just let him know what was happening - not like he had anywhere else to go, “Riiick-” he mewled and looked up. Stan’s eyes were already read and streaming with tears, “wh-when you left, everything just, everything just went to shit,” he let dropped his clenched hands and looked at the floor, “I shouldn’t have,” he hiccuped and sniffed, “I shouldn’t have called you that name...s’orrible…” 

“And fucking inaccurate, twerp,” Rick thought. He would see where this was going.

Stanley did his best to just say what he had to say. It came out in quick, blurted sentences, “I tried living in my car again, s’not the same,” Rick could have told him that one, “Went to see Carla. She didn’t even wanna be around me! Said other people saw us...Ford knows... And I don’t have any money. Tried to steal from a lady, and I was thrown in jail! Jail, Rick. When I - when I walked home, the car’s gone-I’ve got nothin’!” his eyes were puffy, and he desperately tried to wipe at his eyes, but that only assisted in his crying further. He let out a sob, “Rick!” he didn’t feel like standing anymore, he dropped to his knees pathetically, “I-I don’t know what to do, I just know that I need to be around you and I miss you and I’m sorry, and I can’t stop thinking about you, and I want things to be back the way they were ‘cause I know this is my fault and I know I’m terrible, but you gotta believe me, I’m - I’m sorry Rick I - I’ll do - I’ll do anything to make it right I just - need someone -” he choked on his sobs and wrapped his arms around himself. 

Jackpot. After days of hopping dimensions and getting nothing more than these hickies on his neck and chest, he begrudgingly come back to this dimension. None of the Stans back in the present time period seemed to want anything to do with him. Either that, or he had irreconcilable differences like in the P1-ZA dimension. Now he had Stanley dependent on him. A Stan that wouldn’t do him wrong, a Stan that would listen to him, and the great thing was, the Rick of this dimension had no idea it was happening. He had finally succeeded after weeks of putting on this charade. The amazing thing to him was, he didn’t have to go back to that simperingly sweet attitude he had carried with him over the past month. It was starting to give him hives. Well, maybe he could be a little nice. He gaged how he should react, and watched Stan sob quietly to himself on the floor, cries intensifying the longer Rick didn’t take action.

Stanley moved backward when Rick walked over to stan in front of him. He kneeled so they were at eye level. Stan flinched when Rick placed a hand uncharacteristically gentle on his shoulder, “Easy on the waterworks, you’ll flood the apartment,” he gave his smallest smile, and mouthed, “I forgive you.” 

Wrapping his arms around Rick as tightly as he could, he wailed, “Thaaaank you,” Rick returned the hug, rested his chin on top of his head.

“Go take a shower. I-I got some clothes. I’ll help you break into the impound lot, no fuckin’ way are we gonna spend money on glorified parking.”

It helped to get Stan to stop crying, who quickly wiped his eyes away feeling better now that there was a plan of action. He was handed a towel and a beer, which he took and drank in the shower. The water was hot and soothing. He could feel the crime sliding off his body. It felt good to be clean again. It felt even better to feel wanted again. When he returned from the showers, he was met with a friendly wave, a pat on the bed, and the television on. He was home again.  
“Feeling better?”

“Y-yeah…” He was sniffly still, but the shower had made the body aches and pains dissipate. He felt tired. His eyelids grew heavy, and the beer certainly wasn’t helping. When he sat down at the edge of the bed, he was handed another beer, “Thanks,” he slurped it noisily. Not like Rick cared about manners, let belched and scratched at his stomach idly. 

The pair sat quietly on the bed together, watching old commercials and some late night talk show neither of them really had any interest in, “Re-runs,” Rick muttered, turning the channel.

“Rick that was live television,”

“Euuuuuugh-whateverrr.” 

After his third beer, Stan, from lack of sleep and food, felt a little woozy, and leaned up against Rick. He looked up at him for a moment, and Rick, whose eyes were previously glazed over, snapped out of it and looked down at him, “Light weight,” he murmured, shaking his head and chuckling.

Feeling a little bolder, Stan rested his head on Rick’s chest, tentatively wrapping an arm around his stomach. It hovered there, unsure if this was acceptable. Glancing down, Rick grabbed his arm, and let it lay fully on him. He kept his emotions off his face, but his heart was racing. He knew the poor kid probably learned his lesson-he certainly didn’t intend for him to go to jail for a night-and didn’t deserve to be ragged on much more. Stan sniffled a bit and wrapped his arm around Rick tighter, his face now buried in his bare chest, right where the bruises were. Rick felt a wetness on his chest, and took his hand, running his fingers through Stan’s hair gently. Looking around the room - like there’d be anyone watching this hell hole - he kissed the top of his Stan’s head and whispered quietly, “It’s okay now, daddy’s here,” there was a hint of a smirk in his voice. He could see the back of Stan’s neck grow red, presumably his face too. 

Stanley lay there frozen for a few moments. He wasn’t sure how he felt about what was said. His heart fluttered in his chest, his blush spread from his neck, to his face and spreading down his chest. Reaching up to wipe away the excess tears he was shedding, he took another glimpse up at Rick, who was staring down at him with a smile. His face felt so hot; was he sick? Did he have a fever? Biting his lip, he began to look away, but Rick tsked and placed a finger on his chin, “Relax, lie down,” to which he shifted himself off the bed. 

Stan obliged, nodding and sliding his body to lay fully on the bed. Rick tapped at his jaw, looking down at the flustered teen. Red like a beet and squirming, the effect RIck had on him was something to behold. Taking it in for a few moments, Rick turned off the light so only the flickering of the television remained in the cramped room, “That’ll make you more comfortable,” he cooed, and he could see Stan visibly relax. He figured he’d get used to it sooner or later. For now, he’d be gracious, sweet even. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun in his own way...

It took little-to-no effort to unbutton and slide off his pants. Rick hadn’t bothered with underwear. He crawled onto the bed, gently moving the hand not holding himself up on Stan’s thigh. Eager hands made fast work of the tank top Stan was wearing. Rick wondered why he even gave him a shirt to put on in the first place, as it was thrown to the floor. He gripped the fabric of Stan’s night shorts. Rick could see the outline of a bulge, but he was squirming in what looked like nervous fright. He lowered himself onto the brunette and pulled himself up to eye level. Pressing his lips to Stan’s in a quick and hungry display of passion, Rick pulled away to look down, “I’ll turn the television off,” The expression that graced Stan’s face was a mix of fevered anticipation and fear of the unknown. Rick decided to tease him one last time. He adopted a tone that lavished concern, “Don’t worry,” he turned the television off, and returned to his position atop Stan. Leaning in closely, he trailed his tongue up Stan’s neck, to his ear, and whispered, “Daddy’s gonna take good care of you,” he grinned, teeth glinting in the darkness. Now that he knew Stanley was his, he had no qualms chipping away at those issues. He’d drop it for now, Rick was sure he’d had enough. The night shorts had to go. One yank was all it took, but he was satisfied to feel the struggle of a full erection hooked on the waistband. 

For a brief moment, Stan brought his hands to his face in embarrassment. He didn’t protest. He wanted to be taken care of. His poor adjustment to low light helped him relax. A cool abyss with friendly shadows. No. It was Rick. He forced himself not to drift away to something abstract but to consciously think of Rick. That was what he wanted, but the darkness was helping him accept the reality. His dick jumped when he felt a hand wrapped tenderly around it. Letting out a sigh, he soon felt lips against his again. He eagerly parted his lips to accept a warm, wet kiss. The newfound zeal was endearing to Rick, and the hand on Stan’s cock wandered down to his balls, squeezing gently, then further down...Stan’s breath hitched. Foreplay didn’t seem to take as long, he felt starved, and was excited to try these new sensations. The finger circled the tender flesh of his asshole. Whining into the kiss, he laced his fingers into Rick’s tangled mess of hair. Some time passed before they disengaged, Rick’s teeth pulling at his lower lip, and leaving a trail of wet kisses down the side of his jaw, throat, and collarbone. Nipping the tender flesh around it, he continued his descent, stopping to lick at a nipple, moving to the other and giving it a bite after circling the peaked skin. This was something Stan had never considered to do, and bucked his hips unexpectedly at the pleasant feeling it elicited. He had finally relaxed. Now able to enjoy himself, he moaned again in approval.

Wanting to coax the nervous lover into more participation, occasionally Rick would ask him how he felt. Stan’s replies were mostly quiet, one word answers and soft sighs. Rick’s lips continued to lightly trail down his stomach until he reached the soft patch of hair encircling his belly button and leading to his genitals. Squirming, Stan adjusted his position, scooting up toward the head of the bed, settling into the pillow better. Rick nudged Stan’s legs further apart, settling himself in the space between like a very pleased cat. Resting his chin on the younger man’s thigh, he let a hand caress the swollen, pulsing cock. Turning his head, in a breathy voice he murmured, “What do you want?” the air from each syllable hitting Stan’s nerves like small shocks. 

Bristling at the odd sultriness of his voice, he took his time to reply. His mind drew a blank. Maybe if he just bucked his hips he would get the hint. Hands held him fast, “Ah, ah, ah, we use our words,” the voice chided. Embarrassed at how patronizing he was, it only made him harder.

It took a few more moments before Stan cleared his throat, tongue suddenly dry, “C-can you...um...well, you know, what we did...the last time?”

“My memory’s a little foggy,you’ll have to-urp-you’ll have to elaborate.”

Groaning in frustration, Stan mumbled in a flustered voice, “S-s,” he pulled on his own hair staring at the blackness of the ceiling, “Suck my...cock?” he was surprised at how high-pitched his voice was.

“Someone’s using their big boy words,” he snorted and reached for something at the side of the bed. Returning, he wrapped his hand around Stan’s dick, and was quick to plant a kiss on the head of his member. Stan arched his back, surprised by the sudden contact. Wrapping his lips around the head now and sliding down, Rick let his tongue dance and hurriedly swirl down the shaft. Squirming violently, Stan felt like a rabid animal. Rick coughed, and gripped at his thighs, “Easy,” he hissed, and let one thigh go. Stanley stopped immediately.There was the sound of a cap. Fumbled effort exerted on something. The squelching sound of a liquid. Then, a finger at his asshole. Stan gasped, and Rick felt muscles tense beneath his hand. 

Sucking in his breath, Stan braced himself when he felt a finger worm its way past the puckered sphincter. Slow and considered, Rick made sure Stan could adapt accordingly before continuing onward. Rick continued to suck on Stan’s cock, but he kept the pace incredibly slow, purposely teasing him. Younger men tended to get a little too excited, and wanting to keep Stan from orgasming before him, he would have to stop soon. The finger in Stan’s ass quickened in its pace, effortlessly sliding in and out with the special lube he had. A second finger was added. It scissored gently, though Rick sincerely doubted that would do anything. Sitting up, Rick shifted onto his knees and surveyed the writhing man beneath him, “Do...do you want me to fuck you?” his voice was unctuous and patronizing.

Throwing his head up in Rick’s direction, his face was twisted and intense, “Yes,” he barked. He had thought about this moment occasionally, his first time. Spreading his legs a little wider, he accommodated Rick, who was now positioning himself for entry. Heavy pants escaped Stan’s lips. He clawed at his own skin, raking his fingers up his sides. There was a way to describe this feeling...was it delicious? Maybe it was delicious. There was a pressure. Then discomfort. Rick’s dick seemed bigger than he thought. Well, probably any dick seemed bigger than he thought. Stan never took a moment to look. He quailed internally that he didn’t take a glimpse earlier. The pain was...tolerable. Rick had been generous with the amount of lubricant that slathered him, and was going incredibly slow. Looming over him now, he placed a hand on either side of Stan and buried himself to the hilt. He beamed down at him, lingering for a moment to relish in the feeling. Stan wrapped his arms around Rick’s waist loosely, leaning up for a sloppy kiss. 

Rick pulled himself out, entered again, and kept the first few thrusts intentionally sluggish. When he felt Stan relax, he started a gentle pace. Stan broke the kiss to take his frustration out on Rick’s shoulder. He didn’t want to see those ugly mark’s later. He’d make his own. He only wanted to see damage done by him. Pushing the idea of someone else out of his mind, he bit down on Rick’s shoulder. Hissing at first at the abruptness of the action, Rick moaned quietly in appreciation. Stan repeated his process, his bites surprisingly merciless. It only made Rick want to fuck him harder, but this would not be his decision. Although Stan pushed against him, squirmed in impatience, and gave encouraging groans, Rick refused to take the hint. It was agonizingly inadequate for him. Finally, when Stanley had grown antsy and balled his fists violently into the sheets did Rick asked, his voice disgustingly innocent in tone, “What is it?”

Stan was surprised at himself in his ability to take him in so easily. That must have been some good lube. He still felt uncomfortably stretched, but it was becoming easy to adjust to. Shuddering when he heard Rick ask him such a simple question, something inside Stan snapped. He was practically drooling, an animal with a single-minded goal. He writhed at the overwhelming sensations and without even thinking rasped out, “Fuck me harder, daddy!” Then silence. His eyes were wide and searched for Rick’s face. Feeling his face burn and flush, he quickly turned his head to stare off in embarrassment. 

Rick faltered in his thrusts, stunned. It wasn’t his intention to actually have Stanley say anything like that. The fact he said it on his own was an deliciously amusing-and not to mention arousing-notion. Reveling in his small victory, he made a mental note to use this in some respect later. He pondered something even more demeaning to say, but after watching Stan look away like that, he figured he would give the man what he wanted. Rick clawed at his sides, gripping Stan’s love handles briefly, and making their way back to heaving shoulders. With no warning, Rick gleefully thrust with a zeal he hadn’t been able to achieve in quite some time. The response was a gasp and appreciative groan. Rick ran his thumbs across Stan’s clavicle while he contemplated seeing if he liked choking. He’d save that for another time, this had already gotten very unorthodox for a first time. 

Rick quietly praised Stan’s good behavior, much like you would praise a dog. Stan couldn’t handle it anymore. The combination of praise and Rick’s pulsing member stretching him, hitting just the right spots. He came immediately; his hot seed spurted onto his stomach, some landing on Rick. Stan was gripping his own hair, whole body trembling. Rick could feel him shake, and continued to pound into him, smirk decorating his features. Stan was unbelievably tight. The sounds Stan made egged him on, “Such a, such a good boy,” he groaned and kissed Stan's chin. Patronizing him was one of the best parts, the others wouldn't take that shit from him at all. It didn’t take too much of this for Rick to spurt in him deep, remaining buried to the hilt. He peered down at Stan, a panting mess, sweat dripping into the other man’s face. Rick promptly withdrew, and laid down on the bed with him. He was beat. It had been too long for him. Torture. With his appetite sated for now, he wanted to drift off into a hopefully dreamless sleep. 

Stan laid there for a moment, first taking in the sensations after being fucked. His ass was sore where Rick's hips drove against him. He rubbed the scratches on his side. The wash of endorphins did not completely gloss over his mental state. Turning over to face Rick, he placed a tender hand on his arm, squeezing gently. It groped in the dark, moving up his chest and then his face. Rick grunted in disapproval, and turned away. Feeling a small pang of disappointment, Stan flopped his body so that they were back-to-back with a barely inaudible sigh. After a few moments in the dark like this, Rick felt guilt creep into his mind. He turned again and pressed his body up against Stan, and wrapped an arm around him. The nuzzle into this lazy hug brought a small, yet wicked smile to his face. He buried his nose in his hair, taking in the sent, giving his head a kiss and then muttered gruffly, “Get some sleep we gotta wake up early. Steal your car back before anyone shows up,” it was a cue to please stop. Stan was happy to drift off; even though Rick was a twig compared to him, this would be the safest he'd ever felt in his life. The haze of sleep overtook him quickly after he fumbled over a contracted, “G’night.” Both of them were out moments later.

**

The blast shook the entire building to its core. Rick was blown back, against the wall, blinded from the temporary flash. A high-pitched sing pierced his ears, and he felt himself shouting with all his might, but the words weren’t coming out. “No!” he tried to scream, “No, no, no!” He was disoriented, the room spun, he clasped some of the rubble in front of him. Where was Stan? In the attempt to stand up he soon found out he couldn’t. Both legs were broken; after looking down quickly, a shard of bone stuck out from his leg, “F-fuuck -” he decided to crawl.

Sheer agony is what could be described over the next few minutes, which felt like a hellish eternity. Closer to the vault door lay a figure lying still. The closer Rick got, the more horrific the realization was. It was Stan. He had been caught in the blast. On his side, not facing Rick, his breaths were shallow and erratic the closer one looked. Forcing himself to sit up, Rick peered at Stan, almost terrified to touch him. He placed a gentle hand on the now heaving shoulder. He was acknowledged. The man turned his head to look at Rick. His pupils were pin dots. He was missing his left ear. Nose? Broken and bloody. Rick winced when he saw that Stan’s right arm was pulverized from the elbow down. He didn’t say a word. He just stared, eyes pleading. Pleading for something, yet at the same time, blaming him. It was his fault. All his fault. Rick’s guilt was insurmountable. He checked his pockets; there was no portal gun. What he did find, was a laser pistol. He could hardly think, let alone craft a daring escape for them, he was bleeding out too. It shook him to his very core. Rick began stroking Stan’s hair in soft, wistful motions, gazing down with a smile. His hand gripped tight on the pistol. He was grinding his teeth, surprised that they didn’t break, the pressure was so hard. Leaning down, he whispered something quietly, kissed Stanley’s sweat-drenched forehead, and placed the pistol to his temple. The weapon discharged.

Rick woke up immediately. He hadn’t moved since last night. He was still in Glass Shard, still in this shithole apartment. Still without Stan. Well, the one that he wanted. He disengaged himself from the teen tangled in the blanket he must have thrown on himself in the middle of the night. Sitting up on the edge of the bed he sighed heavily. Not another one of these dreams. This is why he was so terrified of sleeping. Every night, a different dream. A different scenario of Rick’s irresponsibility getting Stan killed. He felt a wetness in his eye. Wiping away a single tear, he grimaced and got up to go get a strong drink. While he downed his whiskey he rummaged through the fridge and found some eggs that were questionably still in date and a bit of bacon that was nearing his expiration. He made breakfast with the refrigerator door as his light source, it was still dark outside. Unceremoniously he plated the food and plopped down onto the bed. “Hey. Wake up. Eat this. We gotta, we gotta go, Stan, c’mon,” he still shook him even when Stan awoke, and graciously accepted the meal. 

“How’re we gonna get the car out?” he said with a mouth full of egg.

Rick shook his head quickly, and he slid his eggs onto Stan’s plate, “I-I-It’s not difficult,” he got up and pulled a pair of bolt cutters from his closet, “These should work,” Stan wolfed the rest of his plate down and wondered for a moment just what Rick was doing during his stint away. Ignoring that, he put on his dirty clothes quickly. “This isn’t, this isn’t a huge cosmopolitan center, I doubt there’s any-euuuuugh-advanced security measures,” Rick continued. Stan wasn’t listening. He couldn’t wait to change into something different, he wanted to be able to drive around again. It dampened his spirits momentarily, but when the both of them were ready to head out he felt a strange mix of peace and excitement.

Sticking the bolt cutters in his coat, Rick ushered Stan through the halls. He seemed distracted, but then again, so was Stan. When they spilled onto the street, the sun was just beginning to come up, but the twilight still proved to be effective. Walking through the streets, Stan was still anxious to see if anyone was around. While looking around he spotted a sign for being your own boss...in sales? He never considered it before. Ma and Ford always seemed to like his little tall tales growing up, and wasn’t sales just telling a story? Or like telling a lie! Yeah! He thought about it for a moment, and caught up with Rick’s long stride. 

Rick was correct. There was just a padlock on the gates, it was astonishing. Especially for New Jersey. Two quick snaps and it fell to the ground with a thud. Even his car was unlocked; the keys were in the visor, “This is insane, what kinda business are these people running?” Stan muttered to himself. He probably could have done this himself, but didn’t have the confidence. He thought about how Rick seemed to give him the confidence. Then he wondered if he would have ever gained the confidence to do this. What would he have done without Rick’s help? Even though the man was a bit aloof to him now, and seemed to pressure him into various strange situations, he had a feeling that he didn’t deserve Rick. That he was the truly flawed one. When Rick hopped into the car, they sped out. 

Stan decided to drive the car around town until the sun came up. He broached the subject of being a salesman, “I think it could work! I could make some real money!”

“I-I dunno, Stanley, you don’t seem to be one to make an honest living,” he took a swig from his flask and stared out the window, feet on the dash.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t take short cuts,” he smirked, and Rick chuckled half-heartedly. 

Stan examined the dashboard console, “Uh-oh...Runnin’ low on gas. Ya gotta couple bucks?” he asked sheepishly.

Rick shoved a fistful of ones at him, “Here,” he didn’t look at him. 

Stan pulled into the gas station rather quickly, tires screeching. He hopped out of the car to pump the gas himself; why pay a guy to do something you could do yourself? He forgot where he was. In fact, he was just a block away from the high school, and students were casually walking to their classes. It was sparse enough, and Stan played it cool as to not attract any attention to himself. Maybe no one would notice. None of his former classmates really looked up to pay attention, just a little more from the pump and he’d be done. He went to pay the clerk once the completed, and just when he was opening the door to the car, someone walking caught the corner of his eye. Glancing over, he knew exactly who it was. It was his brother. It was Stanford. And Stanford, being a fairly observant individual, had noticed the family car, and tripped in his steps. They made direct eye contact. Rick was watching from his seat and his eyes widened, “Oh wow, what a nerd,” he grunted, and slugged down some more from his flask. 

Stan froze. Now what would he do. He had two options. Speak to his brother, and face shame and embarrassment, or bolt. It was time to bolt. Set up shop in another part of New Jersey - never been to Trenton before, maybe Trenton would be great. As he slid into the car he could hear Stanford yelling his name. He didn’t run after the car, just watched, looking expectantly for him to turn around. As they passed him, Rick’s window was open. He mumbled, “See ya later, nerd,” and the Stanmobile rounded the corner and they were safe. Stan’s breathing was heavy, and he looked at Rick, who was smirking to himself, “Kinda cute,” he whispered, but then deadened his gaze at Stan.

“Rick, I have to leave,” he said urgently.

“Leave? I-I-I’ve been wondering when you were gonna-urp-gonna see the great, wide world.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna come up with an idea, and then I’m gonna leave and do it there,” he looked frantically around at a stop light to see if Ford had followed him. 

Rick rubbed a finger on his chin and murmured, “Ya know, I support your idea,” he seemed to brighten up. 

“Will you come with me?”

There’s the kicker. Rick’s hand rubbed on up his face, “Y-yeaah Stanley, just not right now.” 

“Not right now?” 

“Gotta tie up some loose ends, y-y’know, a property owner like me can’t just, can’t go wherever they want,”

“Your apartment is mostly beer cans.”  
“Well, you know what I mean, Stan, I can’t just leave,” he smiled vaguely at him, “I’ll catch up with you.”

“How will you find me?”

“Don’t worry about it, why don’t you drop me off here? I-I can walk home. You’re close to the highway anyway.” 

Stan’s heart sunk a little when he thought about Rick leaving him again. This time it was on seemingly good terms. He promised he’d catch up with him. Maybe Stan could work on his independence. This would be good. He would be fine. It would be an adventure all on his own, and he didn’t need anyone for that. He was capable. At least that’s what he coached himself. Not wanting to seem like a burden, and definitely not wanting to seem like he was being needy, Stanley obliged him, parallel parking on a side street. Stan turned to look at Rick, “You sure you don’t want me to just drop you off at your apartment.”

“Look at me Stan,” he leaned in. His skin was sun-parched. He looked like he hadn’t seen light in days, which confused Stan since he had been away from home for nearly a week, “I-I think a little time in the sun would be a benefit. Gotta soak up those vitamins. D…” he trailed off, and eyed his flask. He frowned upon realizing it was finished. With a small smile, he gripped the door handle, “Welp...It’s been, it’s been a real treat, Stanley,” he saluted him with two fingers, opened the door, and slid out, “I’ll catch ya later,” 

Stan watched him leave and disappear down an alleyway. There was a lingering feeling of melancholy; he sat there letting it sink in. From the same alleyway, Rick hurriedly walked toward the Stanmobile. Stan rolled down the window, expressing confusion. Rick’s hands shot out, and gripped his face. Making sure no one was looking, he quickly leaned in and planted a kiss square on Stan’s lips. It was short but fueled with a lingering passion. He patted and fluffed up the younger man’s hair, “Somethin’ for the road...don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he chuckled darkly. Stan found him endearing in this healthy balance of alcohol and cognisense, and nodded. Once he watched Rick move out of sight, he put the car in drive and headed for the the building advertised on the sign he had seen earlier. 

After being given the ideas of what to do, Stan mused while he drove out of Glass Shard Beach. Just need to find an outlet or wholesale store, it would be a piece of cake. He smiled, he felt hopeful for the first time in quite a while. As long as he didn’t think about Ford or his impending loneliness, everything was fine. The world was his oyster! At least, he hoped so...


End file.
